


amongst your cold sheets

by kiranxrys



Category: Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: First Kiss, M/M, Making Out, Post-Episode: s02e22 The Wire, Prompt: Dreams/Hallucinations, Revelations
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-31
Updated: 2020-08-31
Packaged: 2021-03-06 17:22:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,829
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26212606
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kiranxrys/pseuds/kiranxrys
Summary: Someone keeps breaking into Julian's quarters in the middle of the night. Either he's losing his mind, or hisfriendGarak is up to something again.
Relationships: Julian Bashir/Elim Garak
Comments: 16
Kudos: 136
Collections: Star Trek Bingo Summer 2020





	amongst your cold sheets

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Star Trek Bingo Summer 2020 event.
> 
> This fic is set some time shortly after The Wire - I really had a lot of fun writing at a point earlier in the show. Title from Tomorrow by Daughter

The first time it happens, Julian is pretty sure he must be hallucinating. Or dreaming. One of the two. He wakes with a start – not to the chirp of the computer alarm he always sets for a depressingly-early 0700 hours start to the day, but with an uncomfortable jolt like he’s floating back above the surface of a nightmare. Although the pang of alert anxiety fades just as fast as he feels it, he can’t seem to move. Through half-open eyes he sees the chronometer by his bed – 2 o’clock in the morning. He _never_ wakes up during the night, usually dead to the world from the moment he finally gets his mind to slow down and go to sleep. Something is off.

A soft thud. He freezes.

His first thought of _oh my God, I’m about to be murdered_ is probably a bit over the top. Deep Space 9 is well known for its occasional nasty incidents, but he’s pretty sure no one has been stabbed to death in their own bed. Yet. Paralysed, he hears a single footstep. _Someone is in here. Someone is in my room. At two in the bloody morning._ What the hell is he supposed to do? Confront them? Stay still? If they _are_ here to murder him, neither option is particularly appealing. Maybe they’re just here to steal – Starfleet documents, or Julian’s spare change of latinum slips. Or maybe he’s just imagining things. Because as he lies there, frozen, aware that he’s holding his breath which might just be an obvious sign of awareness to whoever his nighttime visitor is, he realises the room is silent. No footsteps, no breathing. And Julian does have fairly perfect senses, for better or worse.

He dares to open his eyes a little more. All the shadows in the room look creepily like people, figures huddled in the darkness with lanky limbs and blurred faces. Deep breath. He’s Julian Bashir – he’s the Chief Medical Officer of a Federation space station at just twenty-nine years old, a very good racquetball player, and if somebody _does_ stab him, he’s pretty sure he’d be able to fix it before he bled out on his own carpet.

“Hello?” It comes out embarrassingly afraid, like the voice of a scared child. “Is- is there someone there?”

Nothing. Keeping his back to the wall, he slides out of bed and onto his own two feet. His heart is pounding in his chest, every beat a painful blow that he feels all the way up his spine to his brain. He shivers. Garak was right – it is too cold on this hellish station, even for a human.

“Computer,” he says softly, “increase temperature by… by two degrees Celcius. Please.”

The computer chirps, and Julian feels a breath of warm air against the back of his neck.

“Er, computer, one more thing.” His eyes are fixed on the door to the small bathroom he has to himself on the far side of the room, closed. He can’t remember whether he left it open or not when he went to sleep in the evening. “Can you tell me who is in the habitat ring, Section 51 Gamma, Room 23? Command authorisation Bashir-1-Alpha.”

_“Doctor Julian Bashir.”_

“And that’s all?”

_“Correct.”_

“Thank God,” he mutters, letting out a shaky breath and trying to ease some of the tension from his shoulders. He catches Kukalaka’s eye as he steps into the living room, smiling weakly at the sight of the russet bear sitting on the shelf. “Don’t worry,” he tells the toy as if he can hear him, “it’s all right. I must have dreamed it.” Still, better to be safe than sorry. “Computer, can you tell me the names of everyone who’s been into this room since uh… well, around 2100 hours last night?”

_“Unable to comply. Information is not available.”_

His stomach drops. “Computer, I want to review the door access records for this room from the past day.”

_“Unable to comply. Information is-”_

“Not available, I know, I know,” he says, fingers twitching with the compulsion to do something. This not good. Not good at all. He didn’t dream the intruder – he _couldn’t_ have – and whoever they are, they’re smart enough to know how to erase any trace of their visit. He should call Odo, have security come to take a look. Some second sight drags him over to his front door, still locked as usual. Barefoot and trembling slightly from the cold, he steps out into the corridor. Nothing and nobody. The hall is as dark and silent as his quarters, and he doesn’t dare to investigate any further, not while it’s still night. He’s seen far too many ancient Earth horror films for that. Better to stay put and wait it out.

Something grabs his attention. A tiny pinprick of yellow, caught in the dark fibres of the carpet. He crouches down and picks up a single golden piece of thread – sort of mustard-yellow in colour, only as long as his pinkie finger and fraying at the ends. _A clue._ Julian Bashir might not be an expert on fashion, but he _never_ wears yellow. He remembers Garak telling him once over lunch that it was something to do with the undertones of a person’s skin, but it’s a colour that really doesn’t suit him at all.

Tugging Kukalaka from the shelf on his way, he scuttles back to his bed in the other room and sits cross-legged with his back against the wall, examining the mysterious piece of thread. It doesn’t look like quite the right colour to be from a Starfleet uniform, but then, he wasn’t suspecting someone from Starfleet anyway. You never know with DS9. Even on the quietest days, it’s always filled with the strangest people. And he’s seen some of the criminal incident reports. Life is never simple here.

“Doctor Bashir to Security.”

_“Security here, Doctor,”_ replies the cool voice of someone he recognises as Lieutenant Levi, who takes every second night shift in the office. _“Do you require emergency assistance?”_

He coughs. “Er, no. I’m fine. But I think there’s been a break-in to my quarters. I could be wrong, of course, but I woke up a few minutes ago and-”

_“Not to worry, sir, someone’s already on their way,”_ Levi interrupts. _“Please remain where you are.”_

“Of course, thank you.” He stares back down at the piece of threat pinched beneath his forefinger and thumb, trying to think. It’s a struggle not to just dive beneath the covers and squeeze his eyes shut as hard as he can until the security officer arrives, but this station is full of gossips and he doesn’t need a story like that circling about the _very_ important and profession CMO of Deep Space 9. The terror of a potentially murderous home invasion has faded, but he’s left with the unnerving sense that somebody out there is watching him. The person who left this golden thread. He wonders whether the scrap of evidence was an accidental parting gift, or perhaps a calling card of sorts. Placing it on the bedside table, he settles back on his bed and gives Kukalaka a comforting embrace until there are footsteps in the corridor outside and the door chime rings in a signal of safety.

*

“You’re late,” Jadzia tells him as he takes a seat at their share replimat table, looking up from her plate of larish pie with chocolate sauce – a terrible Cardassian-Bajoran-Human amalgamation she keeps insisting they all have to try one day – with a suspicious look in her eye. He can guess why. Though timekeeping isn’t exactly his speciality, the only thing he’s never late to is every meal. Just existing on DS9 is hungry work enough.

“I know,” he mutters, setting down his own tray and nearly knocking over Miles’ cup in the process. “Oh, Chief, I’m sorry. I’ve just been stuck in Security talking to Odo all bloody morning.”

“Security, why?” Miles asks. “Surely not another break-in to the damned Infirmary security system. I _just_ got finished fixing those sensors the day before yesterday.”

“I only wish it _was_ that,” Julian replies, taking a hasty bite of his club sandwich. “Someone broke into _my room_ last night. While I was asleep! I woke up, but by the time I was properly aware of anything, they were gone.”

Jadzia lets out a low whistle, apparently enthusiastic about this new development. “Did they steal anything?”

“No, that’s the strangest thing,” he says. “Security did a full sweep of my room, Odo even made me make an entire inventory of my possessions. Nothing’s missing, not as far as I can tell, at least. Whoever they were, they just came and went. Erased all the door logs and sensor records, too. The data for the entire section of the habitat ring disappeared just like that.” He snaps his fingers, trying not to smile about something that should be a lot more serious than it is exciting. He’s already had a lecture from Odo about the terrible threat posed by this perpetrator, who must be either clever or in-the-know enough to disarm the station’s vital security systems and avoid detection. The thread Julian found is still under examination, though one of the forensics security officers told him it was unlikely they’d be able to tell much about the intruder from it. The material is a common sort, and yellow is a fairly common colour. Nothing noteworthy or unusual.

“Ooh, mysterious,” Jadzia comments.

“You sure you didn’t dream it?” Miles mutters.

Julian rolls his eyes. “Yes, I’m sure. Besides, even if I did hallucinate the whole thing, that still wouldn’t explain how those records managed to be erased. The backups, too. I’d honestly just like to know why it had to be _me.”_

“What time was this?” Jadzia asks.

“Oh, around two in the morning? But who knows how long they were actually there before I woke up.”

“You know,” she says, “I saw _Garak_ loitering around by a turbolift on our side of the habitat ring right before I went to bed last night. That’s a _long_ way away from his quarters.”

He frowns, not quite sure what’s she trying to imply. _Garak? That doesn’t make any sense._ As mysterious as his _alleged_ Cardassian friend likes to be, it’s hard to imagine him terrorising Julian like this on purpose. “I don’t see what he would have to do with any of this. I mean, why would _Garak_ just waltz into my quarters like that in the middle of the night?”

“Hm, she may have a point,” Miles says. “Hasn’t he broken in before?”

“That was _one_ time, and he needed my help with solving the mystery of the Cardassian war orphans.”

Jadzia tilts her chin, looking at him with a sort of knowing amusement that he really doesn’t like at all. “Who’s to say he doesn’t need your help now?”

“If he needed my help,” Julian replies, “I’m sure he’d just _ask._ I quite literally saved his _life_ a few weeks ago. He trusts me.”

“Whatever you say…”

“Jadzia, _please.”_

Grinning, Jadzia only shrugs and sits back in her chair. She’s incorrigible when she gets like this. It’s all unfounded, of course – Julian is close to one hundred percent certain Garak that wouldn’t do the whole unexplained break-in thing again, if only for the sake of not pulling the same trick twice. He’s too determined to be impossible for that kind of predictability slip. Still, Garak has been… perhaps a little off, of late. Their weekly lunchtime conversations are just as filled with debate and warm-hearted disagreement, but there’s a thin vein of tension that seems to run along beneath the words that Julian can’t help but notice. A remnant of their unfinished conversations after the implant incident. Given what it forced Garak into revealing to him, he understands. It doesn’t mean he has to like it.

Perhaps he should stop by Garak’s tailor shop today. See how he’s getting on. He has time before he has to be at the Infirmary, after all. He remembers being afraid something like this would happen – that Garak would try to pull up his mask just as it was slipping, allowing Julian to see beyond. He understands that too, of course. It’s all a bit inexplicable, actually. The strange pang he feels when Miles casts aspersions on Garak’s reasons for befriending him, when he’s struck with the sudden at least twice-daily thought that maybe in truth Garak despises him, as he tends to worry all his friends do. Maybe Garak thinks he’s weak and embarrassing and awkward and not nearly worth his time, if it wasn’t for the Starfleet connections.

After the implant, he does like to think he knows it isn’t true. But there’s something in Garak’s rare but still present stiffness that gives him pause. The reservation isn’t something he even ought to be taking personally, given what a closed off and enigmatic individual Garak is. Julian supposes he’s always been drawn to people who present mysteries, _adventure_. Garak is no exception. He’s simply… different. Darker and dangerous. If a sentence of Garak’s is a sack of rice, every grain is one of his lies, and sometimes it feels as though Julian is drowning in an entire silo of them. The suffocation is almost intoxicating, dragging him down in the most irresistible way possible. That’s the worst of it – despite everything, he _does_ think of Garak as his friend. Perhaps he would’ve fought to save anyone’s life, but it wouldn’t have been the same. He cares about Garak. He’s just not quite sure it’s returned in the same way.

Once he’s finished wolfing down his sandwich, he offers a polite excuse and slips away from the replimat. The way to Garak’s tailor shop is one he’s walked so many times now it feels like instinct; most days they eat lunch together, he finds Garak first, hurrying around the Promenade from the Infirmary after skipping out of work a few minutes before his break starts. Overeager, maybe, but someone whose name escapes him once told him it’s important to remind people they’re wanted. Even Garak. Perhaps particularly Garak, because he doesn’t know whether the Cardassian tailor really _has_ any other friends. Not on DS9, anyway. He might have old companions on Cardassia, but not here. Here, he seems fairly alone. And since Julian realised that, he’s always tried to make him less… alone, where he can.

Compassion. It backfires, sometimes. But Julian Subatoi Bashir is _convinced_ beyond any reasonable doubt that in the grand scheme of things, you can never go wrong showing a person that you care.

“My dear doctor, what a pleasant surprise.”

How Garak always manages to get the first word in, he’ll never know. He crosses the shop to the neat desk in the corner, where Garak sits examining what looks like product orders on a PADD, putting on his best smile. “Hello, Garak.”

Garak’s face is its usual reptilian mask of steady, vaguely amused calm, blue eyes bright. _Ugh, he’s so… so…_ So Garak. It turns Julian’s smile genuine just to see it, just to see Garak _look_ happy when the terror and disgust and well-buried grief of the implant is still so fresh in his mind.

“An honour to have you in my simple shop as always, Doctor,” Garak comments, setting down his PADD. “I don’t imagine you’re here to make a purchase.”

Julian chuckles. “Even if I was, I don’t have the latinum. Starfleet isn’t huge on personal budgets.”

“Oh, Doctor, please,” Garak sighs. “After _all_ you’ve done for me, I wouldn’t dream of making you pay.”

“I couldn’t accept your hard work for free, Garak,” he argues back, not for any reason in particular – it just seems like the right thing to say. “It… it wouldn’t be right.”

Garak looks up with him with a slight edge at that, brow raised. “Wouldn’t it? Notions of Cardassian etiquette are quite lost on you, it appears. Even a suit _far_ beyond my capabilities would be poor repayment for a life.” He’s trying to make even, Julian can see that. Snatch back the advantage, free himself from obligation. Not a chance.

“You don’t owe me anything, I already told you that. I only did as much as anyone would or could, given the circumstances.” A complete lie. Both of them know it. There are plenty of people out there who’d be more than happy to stand by and watch Garak die for one reason or another. Tain, the former head of the Obsidian Order, only wanted his protégé to live so he could suffer. It’s another reason why Julian is determined to make him happy here, somehow. It might be petty or unrealistic, but he’s intent on proving that bastard Tain wrong. He didn’t save Garak so he could continue suffering. He saved Garak so for the first time in God knows how long, he might not _have_ to live in that painful reality anymore.

“Your humility is an example to us all,” Garak remarks. “But _most_ unwarranted. You did what no one else could, after all.”

_I saved Elim Garak. I saved him from himself. And he let me, which is something else entirely._ “I did the bare minimum,” he counters, leaning across the desk. He’s glad Garak was sitting down for the conversation. Even though he’s taller, Julian always seems to end up looking up at Garak, and it makes it hard to think of what he’s meant to say. “Now, I can’t stay long – I only dropped by to say hello.”

“Duty calls, of course.”

“Indeed it does. Are we still on for lunch tomorrow?” It’s a non-question – of course they are, they’ve been having lunch every single week possible without fail since not long after their first meeting, when Julian dared to poke his head inside Garak’s shop and offer to purchase that suit after all. To date, it’s the only fashionable piece of clothing he owns.

“Yes, unless there is some other matter that requires your attention.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t dream of it. I have a story to tell you, by the way, so don’t let me forget.”

Garak nods, smiling faintly. “I will keep it in mind.”

It must have been him grin a bit stupidly, because the first thing Jabara asks him when he enters the Infirmary is what the joke was. The whole business with the nighttime intruder effectively slips his mind until mid-afternoon when Odo calls to let him know no DNA traces were found on the scene. He declines the Constable’s rather reluctant offer of a guard in case he feels unsafe sleeping unprotected after last night’s incident. Really, despite the gold thread and missing logs, he’s beginning to wonder whether it was just the remnants of some nightmare after all. Coincidences like that do occur. He might distrust them almost as much as Garak does, but he knows they’re real nonetheless. Sometimes things just… happen. And tonight he’ll just make sure to check the door is deadlocked before he goes to sleep.

*

The next twenty-six hours pass perfectly normally. Well, Garak _is_ a little more pedantic and sharp-tongued than usual at their lunchtime meeting, but Julian’s willing to put that down to a rude customer or something else of the sort. Garak does just _get_ into moods sometimes. He practically bites Julian’s head off when he dares to suggest their latest Cardassian read – _Among the Ashen Dunes_ – was a bit long in the middle. But really, if it’s a romance and the love interests still haven’t met by more than halfway into the novel, that seems like a sign that something’s gone wrong in the editing process. And it’s a shame, because that aside, Julian quite enjoyed this one. It doesn’t stop Garak from going on a long-form rant about human attention spans and the need for some kind of poetic distance in love that Julian’s tainted Federation brain clearly cannotcome _close_ to comprehending. It’s the same old Garak, just a bit distracted and in the mood for an argument. He doesn’t mind.

His afternoon and evening go by without incident as well. He tries rereading a few select parts of _Among the Ashen Dunes_ until late at night, lost in complex prose so filled with metaphor it lulls him to sleep even sooner than staff timesheets would. The only reminder of the intruder comes when Odo calls to tell him there are no new updates, at least not yet.

It only makes it all so much more jarring when it happens again. He wakes groggily to the unmistakable sound of the front door opening, feeling his muscles start to tense up. _Just breathe, Julian. Think of it how a… a_ spy _would react. An intelligence agent – a follower of the Obsidian Order._ Garak would probably have some choice words to give right now about the key difference between knowing a thing and _being_ it. He should get in touch with Felix again and see if he’s made any strides in that _James Bond_ holoprogram. He could use the practice at the moment.

Julian can do nothing but stay still as the mysterious visitor’s footsteps shuffle over to the open bedroom doorway and pause there. He dares to open his eyes just a crack, hoping to hell that the intruder can’t see his face and that his definitely-still-asleep breathing is believable enough. He left a lamp on in his living room last night, and the pale light creates a silhouette on the floor. _Standing right in the bloody doorway. Looking at… me?_ Okay, that’s weird. The faint shadow is warped by perspective, but they look broad, square-shouldered. Curious, he refrains from moving or speaking out. His heart rate is still going insane, of course, but there’s an odd serenity to the encounter too. This person is just… watching him. Something hot and self-conscious spreads across his cheeks. It’s intimate, in a very bizarre way that probably speaks volumes about him as a person and how he perceives the world. There shouldn’t be anything comforting about a home invasion. But this is different, and this is also Julian Bashir. Nothing is ever quite plain and simple with him, either.

There’s a soft huff, more footsteps, and the silhouette recedes. A moment later, Julian hears the door open and close once more. Even weirder. _What the hell is going on here?_ Slipping out of bed, he turns the lights on and does a brief search for clues, but there are no golden threads to be found stuck to his carpet this time. It’s almost disappointing – some part of him was hoping the visitor might leave something behind. A message. An explanation as to why they’re creeping into his room in the middle of the night just to do something as inexplicable and strange as stare at him for a bit and leave.

He doesn’t call Security. He probably should, but he doesn’t. He _does_ tell Jadzia later in the day, who starts to hypothesize about a possible admirer, suggesting a thousand equally unlikely names over breakfast with an unimpressed Major Kira.

That night it happens yet again. Or, he assumes so. He only knows because when he wakes up at his usual time in the morning – 0700 hours – his bedroom door is open, and he’s _certain_ he left it closed. Whoever the intruder is, they’re getting sloppy. He wonders whether maybe they _want_ to be found. It could be a cry for help of some kind. Or an obsession. Or a lonely person who doesn’t know that breaking into people’s rooms in the middle of the night is more than a little creepy. Perhaps all three.

“I’m sick of it,” he mutters, leaning over the station Miles is working at in Ops – a totally logical place for him to be at this hour, so long as you don’t ask why. “I mean – whoever they are, if they need something from me, why don’t they just… wake me up?”

“If you’ve got such a problem with it,” Miles grumbles, “why don’t you just go down to bloody Security and ask for a guard?”

“No, it’s not- it’s not like that.”

“Then what _is_ it like? Don’t tell me you’re _enjoying_ having someone creep on you every second night?” Miles speaks with the slightly-affectionate, mostly-irritated disbelief that conveys he doesn’t need to be told anything. He already knows.

“I’m afraid of scaring them,” Julian admits, biting his lip. “I think they must be coming to _me_ for a reason – maybe it’s something medical, or they know me from somewhere. I’m worried if I get Security to arrest them, it’ll turn out badly.”

Miles rolls his eyes. “So what the hell are you planning on doing, then?”

He sighs. “I’ve got no idea. Confront them, I suppose. But then, what if they are a murderer after all?”

“You know, Julian,” comes a call from across Ops, Jadzia’s bright blue eyes alive in the harsh light as she interrupts, smile worryingly sharp for this early in the morning. “I _might_ just have an idea for you.”

*

Julian’s teeth are chattering. Bathroom floors are really awful places to be at one in the morning. It reminds him of his Starfleet Medical days in all the worst respects. Even the towel he laid out to sit on doesn’t do much to hold back the chill of the tiles, and he feels stiff and aching already from just an hour or two of waiting. Mostly, though, he just feels like an idiot. He taps his commbadge, pinned to the steely purplish-grey of his uniform undershirt, with numb fingers, and glares at the ground.

“I can’t take this much longer,” he hisses, repressing a shiver. “I don’t think they’re coming.”

_“Stop whining, Julian,”_ Jadzia replies over the line. _“It might be hours.”_

He groans.

_“Feel free to go out and wait for them in the living room if you want. But don’t blame me if you end up getting stabbed to death because you didn’t have a door you could put between you.”_

That’s not exactly a comforting thought. “I’m pretty sure if they do decide they want me dead, one bathroom door isn’t going to stop them. I mean, as far as we can tell, they can bypass essentially any station security system.”

_“Huh, what’s goin’ on?”_

_“Nothing, Chief,”_ Jadzia answers. _“Julian’s just bored.”_

“I’m cold. And tired.”

_“Shoulda done it my way,”_ Miles says. _“Took the afternoon off to nap.”_

Julian pulls his arms tighter around his knees and does his best not to think of how much more comfortable his warm, at least somewhat padded bed would be right now. To think he used to complain about the discomfort of Cardassian style-furniture. Maybe Garak was right about the importance of luxury moderation or whatever his sharp-tongued explanation of interior design superiority had been. Julian sighs, closing his eyes. “Let’s just hope the station doesn’t fall apart from neglect in the meantime.”

_“Ha.”_

_“Well, I’m feeling perfectly awake,”_ Jadzia says. _“Just remember, Julian, we’re only a few minutes away if things turn nasty.”_

“Thank you, I feel _so_ much better,” he replies. This isn’t quite turning out to be the exciting stakeout of tension and high drama that he was looking forward to all afternoon. It’s more of a long, cold, uncomfortable wait. And so far, a no show from his nighttime watcher. It’s weirdly disappointing. He almost felt as though something _significant_ was happening, or maybe had happened or would be happening _soon,_ but the longer he sits here on the hard bathroom floor, the more he begins to wonder whether there never was an intruder at all and he’s simply losing his mind.

_“O’Brien to Bashir.”_

“You don’t have to say it every time, Chief.”

_“Right. ‘Course. Julian, I was wondering whether you’ve got any enemies.”_

He lets out a short laugh. “Enemies? Even _I_ don’t think I’m important enough to have _enemies.”_

_“Why not?”_ Jadzia asks. _“Everyone has somebody they wouldn’t mind seeing take a tumble down a flight of stairs or two.”_

“If someone wanted to see me fall down the stairs, I imagine they’d give me a push. No, I think this is probably a person in some kind of trouble – psychological distress, maybe. And I _don’t_ want to frighten them, whoever they are.”

_“That’s very good of you, Julian.”_

“Hmph.” He tries to picture himself somewhere less miserable in his mind’s eye, searching internally for the kinds of places he used to go in boring lectures at Starfleet Medical. Dream worlds where he can play out conversations with people he’ll never meet or hopes he never does, where he can picture the details of some scientific conundrum giving him trouble. Somehow his usual scenes keep melting back into Deep Space 9 – mostly the Promenade or the replimat, unusually devoid of people. He can never see himself in his head, and none of the pictures are vivid. It’s all more of a vague impression. And right now he’s getting the impression of a silhouette, a shadow stretching across the pale ground. There’s something… _almost_ recognisable about its form. Reminding him of-

_Woosh._ Julian accidentally brushes off his commbadge and half-throws it across the bathroom, the small piece of silver clattering on the tiled floor. He scrambles for it, putting a hand over his mouth to hold in a gasp. That sound was unmistakable. The front door. _God, please don’t let them have heard that._

_“Julian, is something going on?”_ Jadzia asks in a low tone, still seeming loud in the silent room. He should’ve left the fan system on for cover.

“Shut up!” he hisses, pressing the tiny key in the back of his commbadge to silence it. If he ends up murdered because of a _do not disturb_ failure, that’s going to be embarrassing. Dragging himself over to the door and pressing his ear against the thin wall, he listens carefully for any sign of an intruder. He can make out a soft thud that might be footsteps, and another soft _woosh_ as the door beyond in the living room closes. Soon the visitor will make it over to the open entrance to his bedroom and see he isn’t there. He should do something, he should…

Perhaps he ought to have got a hold of a phaser before tonight. The mountain of trepidation is so high it threatens to crush his resolve, but he knows he can’t very sit in the bathroom forever and just _hope_ that the intruder leaves unsatisfied. No, he’s doing this for a reason – he has a plan, he has the upper hand, he has Jadzia and Miles just on the other side of a comm line, down a corridor. _These are my bloody quarters, and I’m sick of people barging in uninvited._ First Garak, now… Well, he should probably go and find out. Gripping the commbadge so hard its points stick into his palm, he takes a deep breath and presses the button to unlock the door.

At first, he doesn’t see anything out of place at all. The doorway to the bathroom offers a clear view of the living room, which seems empty except for shadows and a few Julian Bashir-brand messes he hasn’t had the chance to clean up yet. _Seems empty._ He can feel an unsettling presence, something tense and slightly… _off_ in the air around him. His eyes are drawn over to his bedroom door on the far side of the room. It’s almost pitch black – a maw of darkness revealing nothing of the bed and closet space beyond – but Julian can just make it out. An outline, jarringly familiar, a figure not quite as tall as himself and more stocky than slim, hands hanging by the stranger’s sides. He listens close enough to the visitor breathe. Quick and anxious, verging on panic.

He takes a step beyond the shelter of the doorway, unconsciously stepping with as much delicacy as he can muster in his state, and the figure standing outside his bedroom does not turn around. Should he say something? Draw their attention from afar so he doesn’t startle them, risk escalating the situation?

“Excuse… excuse me,” he tries, but it comes out so small that the intruder doesn’t appear to hear him. “Er… hello?” His quarters are silent – the sound ought to travel that far, and yet his visitor is as still as a statue. _All right, that does it._ Julian squares his shoulders, digs his fingernails harder into his palms and crosses the room in as few confident strides as he can make it. “Excuse me,” he repeats, more loudly this time, “is there something I can-”

_Wham._ And then, _ouch._ It’s a dim thought in a sudden disorientation as Julian suddenly finds his feet no longer planted on the floor. There’s a splitting pain in the back of his head, probably because it just got slammed into the hard surface of the wall beside the door. The sting takes second priority to the disconcerting realisation that he can’t breathe. Something – a hand, smooth and cool and not quite human in skin texture – is clamped around his throat just below his chin, holding him up so his toes skim the carpeted floor and his attempts to get air into his lungs are hopeless. Panicking, he drops the commbadge he didn’t realise he was still holding and claws helplessly at the hand choking him, feeling scales beneath his fingertips. _Scales._ He hears a crunch – metal crushed beneath a boot. Unconsciousness is slipping in at the seams of his existence like waves creeping up a beach. He needs release.

Through a hazy lens, he looks beyond the hand to the arm it’s attached to, to the body. He can’t help meeting the pale eyes there, overshadowed by the darkness in the room and some disturbing, disconnected emotion that sends chills up his spine. The pressure is unbearable. “G-Garak,” he chokes out, spending the last of his air. “S’me. _Please.”_

The hold around his throat loosens and his feet slide back down to the floor. Fingers remain fixed about his neck. As he gasps for breath, he’s all too aware of the person filling up his personal space – face barely thirty centimetres from his own, overwhelming. Blue eyes, lacking all their usual sharp awareness. Confused. Julian’s throat feels bruised. He coughs, only restrained from toppling over by the hand still holding him. Everything suddenly feels unreal.

“Doctor.”

It’s a quiet address, said in a voice too uncertain for a speaker precise with his words by nature. In his dreamscape, the silhouette takes form – scales, ridges, distinct features and finely tailored clothes. A well-worn golden tunic, leaving loose threads in its wake. His first thought is, _Jadzia is never going to let me live this one down._ His second thought is, _why?_

He raises his head and meets the gaze before him. Even though there’s no longer any pressure pressing down on his trachea, it seems difficult to breathe. He’s too hot, too on edge. Something unsure in those blue eyes focuses and fades, replaced by a shock that cuts its way through even the most sincere attempt at neutrality.

“Garak,” he murmurs, lost for anything else to say. A feeling stirs in the pit of his stomach, a bizarre urge he has no justification for. _For God’s sake Julian, don’t do that. Don’t think of that. Please._ And now he’s definitely thinking of that. _Incorrigible._ He’s glad it’s dark in the room. It can hide the fact his cheeks are on fire right now. He just wants to-

Garak’s hand begins to slip away from his neck. Losing conscious control over his limbs, Julian reaches up to catch it there, locked into a gut-wrenching staring competition he can’t work out how to break. Some strange power has possessed him, for sure, because he really has no reason to…

“Doctor,” Garak repeats, sounding slightly dumbfounded. _I mean, what did he expect to find here? These are_ my _quarters, after all._ “I… do apologise,” Garak continues. “I hope you can forgive me for such a…. such an _undignified_ outburst.”

_Undignified_ is one word for it. Garak was a minute away from choking him unconscious just there. Except Julian can’t find it in himself to be angry, to even be annoyed for the lingering pain in his throat. It’s too bizarre, too close, too _much._ “That’s okay,” he breathes, unable to hold himself back. Maybe it’s just the residual effects of oxygen deprivation. Maybe he ought to be thinking more clearly. His fingers itch for purpose and find it in reaching over to rest against the side of Garak’s frozen face, just skimming over the ridge above one of his eyes.

_What the hell are you doing?_

It’s a good question. He’s not particularly sure. He jumps at a sharp, mostly suppressed intake of breath – not from him, but from Garak, who stands there as if caught between two states of being. Julian expects him to leap away, has excuses of temporary insanity in the back of his mouth, creeping up to find his tongue, but the tension only builds. His throat feels dry, still aching and constricted as if it still can’t access the air it needs. Julian Bashir was never good at controlling his impulses.

Kissing Elim Garak is by far his biggest lapse in judgement to date.

He leans in with a sudden compulsion, slow and questioning in his movements as the pessimistic corner in the back of his brain flickers to life and throws up a million awful and deeply humiliating possible results of his actions. Even with just the thin cover of his undershirt, he feels as if he’s burning up, and the only relief is in Garak’s cool mouth, a new type of alien that sends a thrill up his spine as their lips meet in what feels to be a moment of pure clarity. He doesn’t have the faintest idea of what he’s doing or why – he just knows every instinct is telling him to get closer, to tease Garak’s mouth into opening for him, to push further and find _more._ And Garak lets him. More than lets him. It takes approximately three seconds of Julian’s attention for something to switch in Garak, something jarring and animalistic that, if not for the events of a few weeks ago and the relative madness Julian remembers seeing in those striking blue eyes, he would never believe could be true.

A gasp is dragged up from his lungs as Garak shoves him back against the wall – not cruelly, using just enough force to hold him there even as he squirms to get closer. God, Garak _is_ shockingly strong. Julian always thought it was Garak’s mind that was the marvel, but here they are not saying a single word and it’s just as engaging. He tilts his head in an attempt to make the angle of the kiss cleaner and have every inch of Garak within reach, dizzied by the impossible heat and suddenness of the moment that tears away at his ability for rational thought. Garak is somehow _more_ forceful, holding his throat without pressure but with _intention,_ a sensation he finds morbidly intoxicating in the warm darkness of his quarters. The whole thing seems… illicit. A forbidden romance, played out in the shadows of night. It verges on blinding.

Garak’s free hand seems to have made its way beneath Julian’s undershirt, and he squeaks as the cool fingers come into contact with his _decidedly_ overheated skin. His stomach is doing flips like he’s an anxious student snuck out of a dorm party and Garak is the first person he’s ever kissed, there in the corridor with cheap liquor burning in the back of his throat. Except this is Deep Space 9, _his_ quarters, and this is Garak, too – his friend who he’s pretty sure he’s never imagined kissing before, which is strange, when he thinks about it, given how undeniably incredible it is to be doing so now. His body is starting to react with a little _too_ much enthusiasm. _What kind of complex is this one, then?_ The _it’s kind of hot when you break into my room in the middle of the night without explanation_ sort, or maybe the _you basically choked me on accident and I clearly found that way less worrying than people are supposed to._ Or most confusingly, the _you’re Garak, and I always want to see you and be around you all the time and when you nearly died I was so angry because I couldn’t stand to see you giving up on yourself like that, I couldn’t stand to lose you._

Ah. That’s… awkward? Or perhaps not, because the vigour with which Garak seems to be responding to his kisses is more than conciliatory – it’s bordering on electric. Desperate. He struggles back against Garak’s hand holding him to the wall, deepening the kiss and pressing for more contact, more of _everything._ Unable to get at him any other way, Julian finds himself running a hand through Garak’s short, smooth hair, feeling the lines of the scales on his face and neck, trailing fingertips along the ridges of his neck. Garak _shudders_ at that, making a sound into Julian’s mouth that reminds him of something halfway between a snake’s hiss and a cat’s purr. It’s all the inspiration he needs to redouble his efforts in exploring what little of Garak’s body is available to him without a cover of thick cloth. This _has_ to be a dream, because he can’t come up with one reason in hell of why Garak would be indulging these slightly insane desires of his unless… unless…

“Wait,” he gasps, pulling back for air and the chance to think. “I just- need a moment.” This is insane. Quite literally insane. In fact, he doesn’t think he’s done anything this mad in his entire life.

Garak eases the pressure restraining him, stepping away with an expression that borders on concern beneath its suave alacrity. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand in a delicate, decided manner so positively _Garak_ it’s difficult for Julian to hold himself back, because now he’s made this little realisation it’s hard not to find everything Garak does a temptation. _When did he get so attractive?_ Maybe Julian has a concussion. He _did_ hit his head pretty hard when Garak lashed out at him. All he knows is that the impulse definitely feels… real. Almost irresistible. Meanwhile, Garak’s discomfort seems to be growing. The silence _has_ stretched on for a weird amount of time at this point.

“Don’t worry,” Julian says, struggling not to crack a foolish smile, “I’m not going to bite your head off.”

Garak’s brow lifts just a little, his eyes grow little sharper. “What a pity.”

Julian wants so badly to kiss him again, it takes all his willpower just to maintain the distance between them. “Er, that aside, Garak, I’d like to know… what the hell are you doing in here? I _know_ it’s not the first time, and frankly, I’d like to know _why.”_

“If you’re referring to the incident with the Cardassian war orphans, that was a necessary measure-”

“I’m _referring_ to the past three times this week at least that you’ve broken into my room in the middle of the night and stared at me while I’m asleep!”

Some of the confident calm in Garak’s demeanour seems to fall away. “Ah. Nothing so troubling as you might expect, my dear doctor, I was merely… _checking in_ on your wellbeing.”

Julian frowns. “My wellbeing? Why? Is there something wrong with me?”

“Evidently not.”

“No, but did you _think_ I was in danger?” That still wouldn’t explain the repeated visits, in the middle of the night, too – sometimes on days when Garak had seen him alive and well within the preceding hours. It strikes him. “Did you _dream_ I was?” It seems too sentimental for Garak, but his Cardassian friend offers no objection. He even averts his eyes, a sure sign of concession. Julian sighs. “You could’ve just knocked.”

“I _hardly_ think you would have appreciated being woken up at all hours of the night just to soothe unfounded fears for your safety, Doctor,” Garak counters, tempered tone rather a contrast to his disordered appearance.

“That’s not the point, Garak,” he replies. “First and foremost, it’s _creepy._ You almost gave me a heart attack the first time – that would’ve been an actual threat to my wellbeing, you know. Secondly, you did wake me up. Twice! And thirdly…” He sighs again, struggling to find the exact words he means with his head so all over the place. He wonders what Garak dreamed of. He wonders why Garak even cares enough to dream at all. “And thirdly, maybe they were unfounded, but it's clear that they were real enough to you. I’d much rather you came to me if you were in distress than tried to deal with it alone. I wouldn’t be annoyed. I _want_ you to tell me when something’s wrong, so I can help you fix it.”

Garak lets out a somewhat humourless laugh. “Therein lies the problem. You cannot possibly imagine the danger you have put yourself in with such a principle, the threat to your life that now exists because of _my_ indiscretion.”

“Oh, stop being so melodramatic!” Julian snaps. “I’m not afraid of any of your old friends in the Obsidian Order or whatever enemies you made while you were working for them. Besides, if that’s how you feel, then why did you kiss me just now?’

“If I remember correctly, it was you who kissed me, Doctor,” Garak bites back. “You can’t blame me for being polite.”

“Politeness – is _that_ what you call it?” Garak truly is infuriating. “Listen here,” he demands, stepping back into Garak’s personal bubble with a challenge fixed on his face. “I’m touched, honestly, Garak, that you care about me enough to worry like that. But you don’t have to – at least, I don’t want you to. It’s not healthy. What’s also not healthy is keeping these things to yourself. If you'd just told me the first time, we could’ve talked through it together, worked out some arrangement. You know you committed several crimes over the past week? Tampering with station equipment, accessing the computer without permission, altering it? What I’m… what I’m trying to say is, you don’t have to sneak around with these things. Not with me.”

“And that is precisely the issue at hand,” Garak says.

“Is there any way I can persuade you it’s not?”

The way Garak looks him over is downright indecent, and Julian blushes again, swaying a little as his stomach does somersaults. It’s so distracting when he’s trying to be sincere. “I mean it, Garak,” he insists softly. “I understand words might be… difficult. All I can say is that I do care and I’m not about to stop anytime soon. And I’m pretty sure you care, too.” He hopes it’s enough. He’s liberal, if not good, with words. Right now he’s not quite sure _what_ to say.

He makes no objection when Garak reaches for him again, more tentative and gentle than before. Tugging him in as though he’s made of fine china or blown glass, capable of cracking at the slightest pressure, Garak tilts his chin up and kisses him. It’s almost tender. Strangely loving. Julian can only remember being kissed like this by a few people in his lifetime, and he’s not sure it’s ever meant so much. Because it does _mean_ something, with Garak.

Words are difficult. Touch is the first step towards them. He leans back and allows Garak to kiss along his jaw, down the line of his neck, over his throat that still aches from their initial misunderstanding. It’s calming, and maybe a little disturbingly natural, for them to be like this.

“Garak?”

“Yes, Doctor?”

He stifles a laugh at the term – one would think, given everything that’s happened in the past few minutes, Garak would find it in himself to use Julian’s actual name. But then, _Doctor_ coming from his mouth is different from anyone else’s. It traverses a kind of unspoken plane of truth, more significant than its dictionary definition. “What is this?” he asks.

Garak pauses to look up, meeting his eyes again with a dramatic sigh. “The inevitable, I fear.”

“Inevitable?” Julian raises an eyebrow, really, _really_ trying not to laugh. He doesn’t want Garak to think this is a joke to him – it isn’t at all – but it’s so entirely mad he doesn’t know what to do _but_ laugh. “Since when?”

“Well, _depending_ on your perspective, two years or only a matter of weeks.”

God, it is so hard to not _smile,_ if nothing else _._ “Two years? Here I was thinking you befriended me for my conversation, Garak. Or at least my valuable insider information on Starfleet. And it turns out all this time…” He gives a mock innocent sigh, tipping his chin to give Garak what he _knows_ from hours of investigation is his best angle. “All this time, you were only after my body.”

That seems to take Garak rather by surprise – a bit head-on for him, perhaps, but Julian doesn’t shy away from these sorts of things. He can see Garak struggle to hold back his desire, fighting off some flicker of dark inspiration that crosses his pale gaze, and isn’t that just incredible? That he, Julian Bashir, can make that happen. Now he knows he has this power, he wonders how he’s ever going to convince himself to stop.

“Your sense of ego is truly astounding, on occasion,” Garak replies, trying to look disapproving.

“Mm, I know. But seriously, I _am_ going to take it as a compliment. I’m very flattered. And touched.” He leans in and kisses Garak’s mouth again, holding him by the collar of his dark tunic and wishing this could just be them forever. The feelings of desire may be new, but they feel so fundamental too. A sort of… innate notion of connection, and although his quarters are still dark, he feels like a light has blinked to life somewhere, casting an almost angelic glow over the greyish scaled skin before him.

Garak. Who would’ve thought it? Then again, these things do have a habit of hitting Julian like a ship breaking out of warp. Maybe he shouldn’t be surprised. Garak was always thrilling, of course, in his own way. But this – running his fingers over Garak’s exposed ridges and scales, tasting the faint sickliness of slightly oversweet Tarkalean tea on Garak’s tongue as he delves deeper, attempting to ignore the still _very_ inappropriate places his mind keeps leaping to given the suddenness of this whole thing.

_He came to me because he was afraid. Afraid_ for _me._ Perhaps a few weeks ago, he wouldn’t have believed it. Garak, afraid of anything. He always came across too enigmatic, too unreal, for fear. But Julian remembers the unguarded terror in Garak’s eyes as withdrawal descended upon him, and can’t help thinking some part of that terror must exist beneath the scaled skin somewhere still. Things like that don’t just go away. They’re scars, old aches soothed by understanding.

“Garak, what exactly happened in your dream?”

“I _believe_ you already know the answer to that particular question, Doctor.”

He can’t find it in himself to press further. Maybe he does know, in a sense of the word. He knows the feeling and the creeping doom and what it’s like to see somebody die – he is a doctor, after all.

“Well, I’m here,” he says, showing a small smile. “There’s nothing wrong with me, see? I’m fine.”

“Yes, I noticed that,” Garak replies coolly. “That said…” He reaches up to touch Julian’s throat, fingers so light the contact is barely there. Julian had sort of forgotten about his injury. It's still a bit uncomfortable when he swallows.

“Oh, don’t worry about that, it doesn’t even hurt,” he promises. “I can get rid of any bruising in a second – no one will know. Unless…” He can’t help smirking, because really, the opportunity is just too good. “…You’d rather I didn’t.”

Garak tuts in a fond manner. “Whatever happened to your sense of professionalism?”

“I don’t think I ever had much of one to begin with,” he laughs. “At least, not when it came to you.”

“How fortunate.”

Julian shivers again at the gleam in Garak’s eye, indiscreetly desirous and sharp, and wonders how many times Garak has looked at him like that before that he failed to notice. “I have so many questions,” he admits.

“All in good time, my dear doctor,” Garak says. “I must remember to impress upon you the Cardassian virtue of _patience.”_

“Yes, and I think _I_ need to remind you of the value of not wasting an opportunity when it passes us by.”

“I’m afraid your human hedonism will be the death of you.”

“We have an old saying on Earth,” Julian tells him, leaning closer. “It goes something like, _live fast, die young.”_

Garak frowns. “A rather… _concerning_ sentiment, to say the least. It’s quite a wonder Starfleet has any living human officers left among its ranks.”

“You still think the Cardassian way is superior, then?”

“Undoubtedly. I’m surprised a man of your usual intelligence can find cause to disagree.”

Julian slips his fingers beneath Garak’s neckline, feeling a strange burst of confidence that mingles with the ecstasy twisting in the pit of his stomach. “Then I’ll just have to try to convince you otherwise,” he murmurs, lost to time and space as he dips his head to capture Garak’s mouth again and make him forget all about philosophy or whatever else is going on in that incomprehensible skull of his. Kissing Garak is… well, it’s mostly like kissing anyone else, in his experience, except for the fact of it _being_ Garak. Garak, who keeps making that almost adorable little purring noise in the back of his throat when Julian touches him – involuntary, he’s pretty sure, but endearing nonetheless. Julian would be quiet happy to stay like this forever, though his body seems to be getting other ideas. How could it not? When Garak is so present and all-encompassing, and the little voice in the back of his head is becoming worryingly preoccupied with the prospect of Garak being a bit forceful with him again, pushing him into the wall and making him abandon control.

The moment is altogether so engrossing he jumps hard enough to whack the back of his skull against the doorframe yet again when something bangs on the front door.

“Julian, we’re coming!” somebody yells, voice muffled. _The Chief._

Faintly, he hears, “emergency access authorisation Dax-8-Beta!”

_Oh God no._ He pushes Garak away with _rather_ more force than necessary, sending the Cardassian careening into the back of a sofa with an expression of complete confusion marring his face. A moment later the door opens and Jadzia and Miles burst into the room, Jadzia sporting just one of her boots, Miles brandishing a kayak paddle like a sword. It would be kind of hilarious if Julian wasn’t also feeling deeply embarrassed just now. That was a _very_ close call.

“It’s okay, it’s okay!” he yells, waving his arms. “It’s only Garak! I’m fine!”

Both of them freeze on the threshold, glancing between Julian and his visitor. A smile tugs at the corner of Jadzia’s mouth.

“What the hell happened to your communicator, then?” Miles demands.

Julian looks down at his feet. His commbadge lies on the ground thirty centimetres away, cracked in two. “Oh, er…”

“We tried getting a message through to your room’s computer,” Jadzia adds lightly. “But for _some_ reason, nothing seemed to be working.”

“Huh.” Julian gives a nervous laugh, casting a quick glance in Garak’s direction. “I wonder why.”

“Yes,” Jadzia agrees. “I wonder.” She seems a lot more delighted than annoyed, which is not a good sign. _She knows. She absolutely knows._ Thinking back to their conversation in the replimat after the first time Garak broke in, he gets the nasty sense she might’ve known for a while. Miles, on the other hand, looks dumbfounded, kayak paddle drooping in his hands.

“Garak was just leaving,” he announces. “Weren’t you, Garak?”

Garak appears to have recovered from his brief shock, bowing his head and making a move towards the door. “Of course, Doctor. We may continue our… discussion at a more convenient time.”

Julian gulps, momentarily lost for a reply. “Right. Yes. Thanks for… for stopping by.”

With no more than a significant, verging on victorious look, Garak sweeps out of the room, sliding by Jadzia and Miles with a polite nod. Julian watches him go, trying to ignore the part of him lamenting the loss of Garak’s cool touch and the feeling of his fingers tracing the sensitive skin of his neck, curious. His heart is still racing, he realises. And now the distraction of Garak’s mouth is gone, he’s far too aware of the pounding ache in the back of his head where he repeatedly knocked his skull against the wall. He knows he must look a mess right now. His collar seems to be out of place, undershirt untucked.

“What was that about?” Miles asks, staring in the direction of Garak’s exit. “You sure you’re all right?”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m fine,” he says hurriedly. “Garak’s fine too.”

“Well?” Jadzia prompts. “What did he want? I assume he wasn’t here to murder you.”

He sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose and trying to get the thoughts running through his head into some kind of order. “It’s too difficult to explain now,” he sighs. “I do uh- appreciate both of you coming to my rescue, though.”

“Yeah, anytime,” Miles mutters, still looking lost.

“I’ll tell you all about it tomorrow,” he promises. That should be enough time to come up with a reasonable cover story. Jadzia will see through it right away, he can already tell, but at least it’ll be something to save face. “I think we’d all better get some sleep.”

Jadzia shrugs. “Sure. Whatever you want, _Julian.”_

Yes, she knows. He imagines the truth is written all over his face. Forcing back a sheepish grin, he ushers Jadzia and Miles out the door with a few more muttered thanks, ignoring the very obvious wink Jadzia gives him as she steps into the hall. _Was it really that obvious to everybody else?_ Aside from Miles, of course, who’s a bit emotionally unaware in a sort of endearing way. But Commander Sisko, Kira – could they all tell? _Have I been flirting with Garak for two years now and not even realised it?_ It’s a question he knows is going to take a lot of embarrassing thought later, but right now he just needs to process the events of the past twenty minutes, let alone two entire years. Once the door is shut and he’s alone again, he flops down on a sofa and thinks. He can still sort of… _feel_ Garak, the marks of his presence down Julian’s face and neck, the heat simmering beneath the surface of his skin.

He catches Kukalaka’s eye from across the room.

“You _knew,”_ he accuses the bear. “You knew who it was, and you didn’t say a word.” Kukalaka stares back with his usual expressionless dark eyes. Julian smiles harder, putting a hand over his mouth to hold in an outright laugh. It’s all too strange. It’s all too _sudden_ and unexpected. And it’s making him deliriously happy. “Can you believe it?” he asks, shaking with the odd lightness bubbling up in his chest like carbonated soft drink. Kukalaka makes no reply, and he lies back, staring at the ceiling. “No, me neither. You know, every day I get gladder we moved to Deep Space 9, don’t you think?”

In a curious way, the silence seems to answer for its itself.

*

“Look, I’ve spoken to the person who did it and they’re _very_ sorry and promise it’ll never happen again, so is there any way we can just… drop it?” Julian asks, cowering a little under the Constable’s unimpressed regard.

“Doctor,” Odo says, “this _person_ has committed a crime on this station – a high-level offence. I would be neglecting my duty by allowing them to escape without arrest.”

“Yes, I do understand that,” he says. “But no real harm was done, right? No one was hurt, and I have it on very good faith that there will be no more sabotages of the station security system anytime in the near future.”

Odo harrumphs, glaring down at his desk.

“Please, Odo?” he presses. “I’ll make it up to you – anything you need.”

_“You_ are not the one who tampered with official security records and station sensors,” Odo points out.

A yellow-shirted officer suddenly dashes through the Security officer door, out of breath. “Sir,” he says. “Sir, we’ve got a fight in Quark’s. The entire communications system in the area is down, the situation’s out of control.”

_Thank God for Quark. I should make sure to leave an extra tip next time I’m there._

“All right, I’m on my way,” Odo mutters. “We’ll continue this conversation later, Doctor.”

“Yes, of course,” he says, stepping out of the way to let the Constable through. He feels as though he just had another near miss. Odo would’ve gone to Sisko next, and even Julian doesn’t think he could’ve held up to that pressure. With any luck, the whole issue will have slipped from Odo’s mind by the time he’s done sorting out the mess at Quark’s. Full-scale fights are rare these days. It should take at least an afternoon to calm down properly.

He finds Garak loitering nonchalantly around the corner, pretending to be distracted by the contents of a PADD. Julian feels the urge to kiss him right there and then, but restricts himself to a slipping his arm around Garak’s middle and nudging the bared ridge of his shoulder with his nose. Maybe not quite obscene in human terms, but significant to a Cardassian. Significant for them, who had never been so close before last night.

“The things I do for you,” he sighs, tucking his head down beneath Garak’s chin. So much for keeping things quiet for a while. Touching Garak, being close to him, is far too tempting.

“You have my gratitude, of course,” Garak replies.

“I should hope so.” He catches Garak’s hand in his own, leading them out onto the Promenade through the gentle thrum of a mid-morning crowd. “But you’ve got to _swear_ you won’t do it again, Garak. Or at least don’t mess around with the station systems next time. I can’t always be there to save you.”

“Ah, but you do it so well.”

“I know, I’m pretty incredible,” he says, smiling. “Now, I’ve got to get back to work. Why don’t you come by my quarters after my shift ends? I _think_ you know the way.” He looks into Garak’s blue eyes, repressing the urge to lean in and kiss him after all. _All in good time._ Maybe waiting isn’t _so_ bad after all. People need things to look forward to. They need to hang onto that belief that there’s something more out there in the universe, just waiting around the bend. “We can talk about those dreams of yours.”

“Not a particularly pleasant subject, I’m afraid,” Garak remarks. “Nor an easy one.”

“That’s okay,” he replies. “Take your time with it. I’m a patient man, after all. See you tonight.”

The corner of Garak’s mouth twitches and Julian can’t help it – he leans over and kisses Garak lightly on the cheek, brief enough to keep anyone passing by from noticing but long enough to soothe the overwhelming _fondness_ burning a hole in his chest, revealing his heart to the world. “If you ever want to check up on me, make sure I’m okay, just call. I’ll always answer.” A promise he shouldn’t make, perhaps, but somehow the words feel so certain in his soul there’s no guilt in the declaration. “All right, I’ve really just _got_ to go. Try not to break into anything while I’m gone.”

“I will do my level best,” Garak promises, letting his hand go with some reluctance.

On his way to the Infirmary, Julian jots down a mental note to add Garak to the list of people with permanent access to his quarters. It’s impossible to keep a slight skip out of his step as he goes, feeling lighter than he has in weeks. He can’t help imagining there might be the need for some more after-hours visits in the future – with any luck, just for a nicer reason than nightmares.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading, as always!


End file.
